Krummy Riddles
by misnomer09
Summary: Flashbacks, Ministry imprisonments, Quidditch, and Bulgarian accents. What happens when duck-footed wizards don't have sawdust-filled heads after all. Tom Riddle III
1. Chapter 1

July 1996 -- Spinner's End

"You know, I'm kind of impressed, Severus. It's good to see you getting your hands dirty again."

"This is just Lucius's punishment. Draco is no more capable of murdering than he is of sprouting wings. We both know that."

"That's why he needs you to baby-sit him, Severus. Can't say I approve of _you _being the one to do it, but no one else at Hogwarts has the sense to leave the losing side." A snort. "A sinking ship, the Order," she mocked the word through her nasal passages. "Can't see why they all stick to it. Now then. What's this business you've wanted so badly to tell me about what's-his-face from that country. Not the one with the dragons, the one with the rubbish of a Quidditch team that still wins somehow." Waving a bony hand about, she squinted trying to remember.

"Bulgaria."

"Bulgaria! Yes, who's that Bulgarian pretty boy you're bringing in? Your special reinforcements?" Bellatrix laughed to herself.

Snape didn't join in. "Viktor Krum. And he's hardly a 'pretty boy', Bella."

"Krum? His name is _Krum_? Oh that won't do that won't do. Sounds far too much like a Muggle."

"It's the name he's been raised with. It's not his. His mother's brother has been raising him. A Mr. Gregor Krum and his wife Salina. Pureblood. Wealthy. Heavy supporters of the Durmstrang Institute. Very anti-Ministry."

"Well that explains a lot then, do' nit?" Another short fit of giggles. "Is he even out of school yet? How did you convince good old Dumbledore to hire him?"

"There have been a lot of complaints to the Headmaster about the failing Quidditch opportunities at Hogwarts. Since Umbridge all but destroyed the sport last year, the Headmaster thinks it only fair to reinstate it with a bang. A new teacher who can just as well coach the four teams. Krum's an international player, one of the best in the world even. And he's already been to Hogwarts. Over a year ago. Triwizard Tournament."

"Oh, yes, I heard all about his little stunt in that. Almost wasted Potter before he got to the graveyard, didn't he?"

Snape smirked slightly. "But he didn't. Krum's a stupid dog, but he's an obedient one."

"If he's so stupid why do you want him at Hogwarts?"

Annoyed with having to answer the question, Snape growled through gritted teeth, "Because. He's entangled in a mess there's no use in getting out of. Krum is involved. Whether he knows it or not, he's involved. And at Hogwarts, I can watch him. Closely."

"What, so he wants to become one of us then?"

"No." A pause. "No, I don't believe he does. All the same, the Dark Lord needs him. The reasons why will become clear over time."

Unsatisfied and brimming with curiosity, Bellatrix 'hmphed' and announced that she was leaving. "Well, Severus, this has been a wonderful evening. I'll see you when you decide to mess everything up at Hogwarts and I have to come fish you out of the fire."

Snape stared into the black unblinkingly until Bellatrix had left. Cursing to himself he threw a table over and slouched into his chair. Reflex took over and his arm numbly raised, the words coldly passing his lips, and the ecstasy of a white mist filled the room. A silvery doe rested its head on his shoulder. And Severus Snape was happy -- happy in his memories and his lies -- if only for a moment.

-

24 June 1995 -- The Maze on the Quidditch Pitch

Endless. The endless awful green everywhere. There was no escaping it, no escaping it. She would stumble out of the maze, look up to see those three stupid boys laughing and cheering for their victory. And then they would look up and shout, "Look at poor Fleur. She couldn't keep up and finished last." Oh what would Madame Maxime say?

Wait. A shadow. Was that a shadow behind her? Platinum locks of hair whipped over her face, cutting into the skin as if they had been made of the sharpest metal. She could feel her eyes pushing out from her skull, desperately trying to find the thing that had haunted her since her arrival in the maze. And then there was something behind her. Something. Something silently threatening her. Lips trembling she slowly turned whispering, "_Aidez-moi_…" Her sky blue eyes managed to trace across those of stormy grey, a strange glint of a green in them that made her want to scream. She never managed a sound.

Searing pain, exploding through her body. She felt her feet wrenched out from under her, and her head colliding with the ground with splitting force. Dazed her eyes rolled to her attacker. A tall boy, her age, Durmstrang eagle painted red across his chest. It was that Bulgarian oaf several of her fellow Beauxbatons had been stupidly swooning over. Disgusting. He was different, though. This wasn't the clumsy, rather rash boy who had put a blanket over her shoulders when she returned empty-handed from the lake challenge. Not the same one who had used magic so unlike that of his schoolmates to pull a lollypop out from behind her sister's ear, then had given her such a warm smile. Her sister had been crying and inconsolable, but Gabrielle had been delightfully charmed at the heavily accented words that Durmstrang had managed to get out. "Don't ve sad now, okay? There iz nothing to be avraid of." But now as the Beauxbaton champion stared up at him, there was nothing in the world more frightening then he. Fleur shook violently, feeling the tears coming no matter how she fought to keep the dazed look of terror from her expression. She stared at his strange, clouded eyes. Was he under the Imperius curse? No, Fleur had seen the effects of that forbidden spell. Something seemed off about this case, something not quite right. But then that awful green swept over her and she was dragged into its depth, staring all the while at Viktor Krum, who silently stared back.

She knew she shouldn't have put her name in that stupid cup.

-

1 September 1996 -- Hogwarts Express

He couldn't breathe. The prat had gone and broken his nose. Wasn't petrifying him and leaving him for expulsion enough? Not for Malfoy. Blood drained into his mouth as Harry lay under the cloak: his most prized possession that had somehow turned into his downfall. He couldn't move, couldn't make a sound. Glorious. Just glorious.

It seemed like an eternity before she found him. Good old Tonks. It was a blur to the feast, but somehow he managed to slip in relatively unnoticed. Just in time for announcements no less.

"Harry, where have you been?" Hermione worriedly asked, immediately noticing the dried blood still hidden in the crevices of his nostrils. "What happened?"

"I'm fine, Hermione, really."

"Won't be for long. Take a look up there." Ron nodded towards the teacher's table, half the room looking in the same direction.

"What?" Harry turned and looked.

"Guess who the new flying instructor is."

His brain slowly put the face to the name and just as Dumbledore stood to address the Great Hall, he uttered, "Viktor Krum…?"

"Well then. Before we dig in, I suppose a few words had best be said. To all our returning students and staff, welcome back. And to our first years, a warm welcome as well. I'd like to tell you all about a few changes this year. As many of you know, Professor Umbridge has resigned from her position as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor…"

A loud cheer went up.

Dumbledore lifted his hand to quiet the students but could hardly stop himself from smiling. "And as such our own Professor Snape will be replacing her. I expect you will all excel exceedingly under his tutelage."

Ron's nose crinkled and a look of pale terror appeared on Neville Longbottom's face. The Slytherin table, however, cheered (several older students even standing and applauding) when Snape stood and nodded curtly. They all knew it would happen eventually; Snape had been after that job for years.

"However, I'm sure you're all thinking, 'But what about potions?'. Ah, have no fear. Professor Snape's replacement for the position of Potion's Master is not without his credentials. In fact, Professor Slughorn is a returning teacher, having taught potions at Hogwarts before. Rest assured, you are learning from the best."

"Oh, you're too kind, Albus." A walrus-sized man adorned in embroidered suits a size too small and watery gooseberry eyes stood smiling at the room. An awkward applause greeted him.

Dumbledore resumed his speech with the usual "Mr. Filch would like to remind you" set of rules for Hogwarts. Only the first years paid any attention. "Oh, I've nearly forgotten. Our beloved flying professor, Madame Hooch, had a bit of a run in with a rogue graphorn on her backpacking trip through the mountains of Italy this past summer. She is recovering well from her injuries, but has taken the opportunity to have an early retirement. Although she will be missed, I'm sure you will all be very excited to meet, or rather be reintroduced, to your new flying instructor. Many of you have met this rather famous Quidditch player before, but as one of your own contemporaries. Now, if you would all please welcome him back to Hogwarts: Professor Krum."

At the end of the table seated between Professor Vector and Professor Burbage, he stood and smiled that same maladroit, yet charming, smile. Viktor Krum looked much the same he had when he had entered the Great Hall with such a bang two years before. Although clean-shaven and Durmstrang buzz cut grown out ever so slightly, he bore the same demeanor as always. His robes were relatively simple, a dark reddish-brown color that was reminiscent of much of Durmstrang's attire (minus the fur), and he wore black gloves as well as a thick dark undershirt with a high collar. Krum was obviously freezing -- the climates of Scotland and the mountains of the far north were a bit different, but without his huge coat and roaring fires of Durmstrang, Hogwarts seemed far colder. Slightly misplaced (he was far more comfortable on a broom then on the ground, everyone knew that) and with shoulders rolled back to lengthen his already tall stature, he nodded to the students staring up at him. His dark eyes swept over the Gryffindor table as he sat down.

Hermione ducked her head.

"Well then. The time for speech making has finally passed. Let's eat!" Dumbledore took his seat and picked up a conversation with Professor McGonagall.

And as the roar of conversation began, Harry and Ron turned to the third leg of their trio, half with amusement and half with concern. "Are you going to do that every time he looks in your general direction?" Harry asked. Ron quickly added with a scoff in his voice, "He's a teacher now, Hermione. It's not like he expects you to go out with him or something. Besides, he was inducted into the Quidditch Hall of Fame last month, remember? Best Seeker of the Century or something. He probably has millions of groupies by now. "

Hermione lifted her head and stared at him in angered shock. "You are unbelievable! Is that what you think I wanted to hear - that he's snogged half of Europe? I don't think he's going to ask me out, _Ronald_. It's just… just awkward! You would know if you'd have _had _any personal experience!"

Ron reddened as he stared back at her.

Harry proceeded to stuff his face with turkey.

Other Gryffindors joined in the conversation. Ginny began discussing Quidditch with Harry (she seemed to be the only member of Dumbledore's Army excited about learning from the Bulgarian Seeker) and Lavender Brown resumed the endless flirting with Ron she had begun on the train ride to Hogwarts.

Disgusted and rather bored (the first day was always the worst as there was no class) she found her eyes drifting to Viktor. He was in a deep conversation with Professor Vector. Hermione couldn't help but feel a bit of respect slip through her mind. The arithmancy professor rarely spoke to much of anyone, let alone the flying instructor, who many of the Hogwarts staff did not consider to be a real teacher.

Eventually their conversation ended and Professor Vector laughed, apparently charmed by the youngest Hogwarts teacher, and turned to Professor Flitwick. Then he looked at her.

Hermione felt her heart skip a beat. Not in the same way as so many of her lovesick peers felt, but almost _scared_. Contradicting how hard she worked to not care what others thought of her, she found herself scared silly by what her fellow Gryffindors might say. Everyone knew she had been involved with Viktor, no matter how briefly. They had been the talk of the Yule Ball, for pity's sake. Someone like Hermione Granger didn't show up with someone like Viktor Krum and go unnoticed. And on top of it all, everyone knew that he'd kissed her. Her first kiss. For all she knew, he could have been the worst kisser in the world, but to her it had seemed flawless, like something from a movie. Not like she'd had a lot of background on the subject, yet it had seemed utterly _perfect_ at the time. Viktor had a way of making her forget things. Forget her troubles, forget her worries. She wished there were other boys who made her feel that way - like ones who weren't a teacher. At least only first years took flight classes and Quidditch players would be the only ones who would have to deal with Krum. As long as she stayed away from Harry's practices… oh what was she doing? This was ridiculous.

Hermione smiled at the new flying instructor, having realized that she was still stuck in her mental monologue. What was she going to do - _hide _for the rest of her time at Hogwarts? No, he was just her friend - her pen pal. They wrote a few letters back and forth each month, that's all! As long as she didn't get defensive or talk about him too much, no one would suspect they were carrying on a relationship. Her hand lifted on it's own and she waved slightly.

He smiled back and returned the greeting discretely. The same thing that occupied Hermione's mind was probably plaguing his as well. Maybe. Probably not.

She was snapped back to reality as a spoonful of custard splattered onto her left cheek. First years…

----------------------

**_I do not own Harry Potter. Or Viktor Krum. Or graphorns._**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. If I did, Ginny Weasley would have not survived the first chapter.**

**Oh poor Ginny Weasley. You're in the epilogue, so stop whining. No one actually cares anyway...**

**-----------**

17 June 1996 -- The Department of Mysteries

He had failed. He, Lucius Malfoy, right hand of the Dark Lord, had _failed_. The prophecy was nothing but shards of empty glass, broken by the bumbling Longbottom boy. Along with it every shard of respect he had managed to keep among his fellow Death Eaters and with the Dark Lord himself. The once flawless globe of crystal lay in pieces in his hands, no magic could fix it now.

Picking up his head, Lucius's cold grey eyes flicked about the room, wand following his gaze. Bella was gone, leading Potter away. She had better not kill him -- the Dark Lord had told them so many times to leave Potter for him. "Don't do anything stupid, Bella…" Lucius muttered as he got to his feet, letting the fragments of glass slip through his fingers. He squinted, seeing ten other Death Eaters fleeing into the Hall of Prophecies, closely pursued by the Order and several children no older than his son. "Idiots." He pulled out his wand and prepared to go to the Ministry Atrium. The floo network would make a fitting escape. "_Ascendi-_"

"_Deprimo_."

His head snapped back as Lucius found himself thrown to the ground, landing on his right knee. Broken. He felt the pain explode through it, quickly followed by the warm numbing of blood. The spell had been cast rather cruelly. Strange. The first thought that ran through his mind was, This isn't an auror.

"No. Not an auror."

And a non-verbal Legilimens. It had to be one of the Order. Feeling his nostrils flare in disgust, he whirled around and shouted, "_Avada Kedavra!_"

A figure darted behind a pillar.

Smart little twit, running away. Probably a filthy mudblood who didn't have the stomach to try and fight back. Glaring through green flame he growled, "Face me, _mudblood_!" It took a few moments before he realized that they had disapparated. They couldn't have gone far. Lucius turned and nearly stumbled over as he found himself eye to eye with the other wizard. Young, tall, with dark features, and furiously angry: all that could be deciphered before an almost-hiss like--

"_Everte Statum_."

His feet lifted from the rock and wind tore through his ears. The ground once more ripped through his cloak, Lucius finding himself tumbling across the harsh black stone. Bloodied fingertips caught the stone and nearly tore his joints off with the attempt. Exhaustion gripped his limbs as he attempted to rise. He had already been cursed half a dozen times before this whoever-he-was arrived and he was in no condition to attempt another battle. Had to get away… Now. A foot met the back of his head and Lucius's face plummeted to the ground. A rather disturbing crunching noise came from his nose. His mouth tasted copper.

"Stay. Down."

For a moment Malfoy considered obeying. "Get off me, mudblood, or I will rip the life from your bod--"

The foot twisted and his nose broke the other direction.

"Shut it."

Eyebrows twitched. Something different in his voice. An accent? "You have no right…" he sputtered out.

"The aurors do, I'm avraid."

A final kick left him dazed, but Lucius managed to get to his knees as he furiously glared after the wizard who was no more than a child. He knew him now. And he knew how to make him pay. "Do you think this is the end of it? Well? Think you can attack a Death Eater, leave him for Azkaban, and walk away free? No, no, no, no…" He muttered to himself, feeling consciousness slip away. Too much blood lost. Too much… Lucius's head fell back to the ground, but he stayed awake. Staring straight out, he watched as the dark boots approached him.

Crouching down next to him, silvery grey eyes met the harsh darkness inside of the younger man's countenance. "And vot exactly makes you think I'm trying to valk away from_ anything_? Malfoy, I haff tried to escape. Vut we both know there is no escape from this." He stood up once more, kicking an elm wand from a shaking, raw hand. "Don't vorry, Malfoy. You von't be in Azkaban long. You'll be free soon. But don't expect a varm velcome home."

Darkness clouded his eyes, that voice still ringing in his ears.

_… there is no escape from this._

_… no escape …_

_-_

11 September 1996 -- Flight Instructor's Office: Third Floor

Of all the sights you could see through the windows of Hogwarts, this one was by far the best view. The stone window perfectly framed the Quidditch pitch, its flags waving in the wind, so ready for the new season. Yeah, definitely his favorite view.

"Fitting, isn't it? That my office should be next to the hospital ving?" A light chuckle followed as Viktor Krum walked into the room. "And how have you veen, Harry?"

"Well, uh, professor." Harry couldn't help but grin at that. Calling Viktor Krum _professor _was so… Well you get the point. "I've been great."

A genuine smile. That was a good sign. "Good. That is good. Now." He walked over to his desk and took a seat, leaning back in his chair. "Vot vas it you needed? Your message seemed rather urgent this morning."

Harry sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk a bit uncomfortably, taking a deep breath before he spoke. "Quidditch tryouts are in less than a week."

Viktor half smiled. "I am sure you haff nothing to vorry about, Potter."

His mind came to a halt for a moment when he heard that familiar 'Potter'. It had always been strange, the way Viktor said his name. Not quite like the Malfoys who spat it as if it were an insult, but rather as if it were something dangerous that needed to be held at bay, to be handled with caution as something fragile and perilous. Then again it was probably just his accent. "No, professor, it's not that. It's just…" Deep breath. "Has Dumbledore talked to you yet?"

"He has."

Oh. "Then you know that this year I'm going to be out of school for a few weeks… and I may miss a Quidditch match or two. Right now Gryffindor doesn't have a second Seeker and, well…"

"You vant me to help you?"

"Yes! Exactly - someone who can train my replacement before the next round. Isn't that what you do? You know, besides teaching first years and refereeing and such?"

A sigh.

Not good.

"Listen, Potter."

There it was again. With a second's hesitation this time too.

"I'm not exactly sepposed to help you recruit."

"This isn't recruiting though! Someone will step forward we just need you to teach them the ropes."

"No, _you _need to teach them. You're the captain this year. That means you haff responsibilities to your team you did not haff bevore."

"But Dumbledore said that once a month each team can have a specific coaching lesson with you. Doesn't that mean we can use it for helping with our new Seeker?"

Another sigh. "Yes, well, the Headmaster meant it as more a _team _lesson then just von person."

"The team can help. Please, professor. I won't let my team suffer because of me."

Viktor stared at Harry for a few moments. "I velieve you."

Smiling, Harry let out a long sigh of relief.

"So. Who do you haff in mind?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Harry replied good naturedly, still smiling. "I can bring a few people and see what happens."

Viktor nodded, shaking his head slightly. "Alright. You haff the pitch tomorrow. Bring your Seeker candidates."

With an enthusiastic nod, Harry rose from his seat. "Thanks, professor." And left.

Staring off into the Quidditch pitch, Krum unclasped his hands from the armrests of his hands where he had been gripping the wood so tightly he thought he might splinter the wood. Why did he always feel so ambivalent when the subject of Harry came up? Half of him felt protective; knew that this boy was the wizarding world's last chance. But what was the "wizarding world" to him? The other half wanted nothing more than to wring his little Gryffindor neck.

Damn Potter.

-

11 September 1996 -- Great Hall

"You want me to _what_?"

"Try out for Seeker! Come on, Ginny, you'd be incredible!"

"Harry, I am a Chaser. Chasers don't just suddenly decide 'I'm going to be a Seeker today'. We decide what method we'll use to pound another Chaser's face in the dirt, not chasing after flying golden balls."

"At least give it a try, Ginny. He'll never shut up about it otherwise."

"If she doesn't want to do it, leave her alone about it, will you two?" Hermione exclaimed after a sip of pumpkin juice, Ginny making a relieved gesture in her direction as if to say 'Yes, thank you for not being an idiot!'. "There are a dozen other Quidditch obsessers that would be more than willing to do the job."

"Yeah well there's _three _dozen others who can't even get ten feet off the ground on a broom." Ron shook his head. "Just do it Ginny."

"You know what, fine. I'll try. But if I make a fool out of myself in front of the new professor, I will kill you."

"Oh, I'm sorry, hate to embarrass you in front of your boyfriend."

Harry twitched.

"_Boyfriend_? Oh, go snog with your owl, Ron." And without another word, Ginny rose and moved down the table.

"Now you've done it."

Hermione shook her head. He'd never learn.

"What? Oh, come on, like you haven't noticed her constant carrying on about him? She's practically _obsessed_."

"She's excited about Quidditch, Ron, and he happens to be an international player. That's all." Hermione rolled her eyes. "She's the same as you were."

"Yeah I seem to recall you 'carrying on' about Viktor Krum nonstop at the World Cup. What was it?" Harry put a hand over his heart and did his best to copy Ron's dreamy tone, " 'He's not just an athlete… He's an _artist_!' "

With a quick "Shut up, Harry", Ron returned to his food.

-

2 May 1998 -- The Chamber of Secrets

Over. It was finally over. He could hear the celebration. Feel it soaking into the earth, down, down, down, down into this cave of his fathers. His father…

The Death Eaters were dead. Dead, or they would be before long. And _His_ death would be made into an international holiday, no doubt. A day of sheer happiness: joy that the monster was dead and gone. No one would miss the man. No one.

No one but his son.

His damned, idiotic, "head full of sawdust", tainted blooded, _son_! Should have let the dementors have him. Why did they have to save him; save him, use him, and throw him to the side. A weapon to be used and disposed of. They had promised him security, but all they wanted was his cold-hearted tendency to curse before asking questions. And so he remained: nothing more than a memorial to the relics of the past. The last Parseltongue. There was no family waiting for him, no reason to survive. His aunt and uncle had been killed the moment the Order had swindled him into being a part of their little rebellion, and Quidditch wouldn't be reformed for at least another year.

It wouldn't be long before the truth was out about him anyway. That sort of secret didn't stay dead. Even if the entire Order had been magically sworn to secrecy. Something would slip. Or someone would figure it out.

They were turning greener. Every time he let those vile words slip off of his lips, his eyes went a shade greener. He probably wasn't even recognizable anymore. So much paler because of how much time he spent in the dark, accent all but gone, thinner from being a prisoner, colder because of the cage that had been created around him… and those damn green eyes.

And it was all because of _Him_.

"Why," the word slipped off in the tongue now only he knew, directed at the lifeless body in front of him.

There was no response.

"Why her. Why _my _mother."

Still no response.

"WHY HER!"

The eyelids were closed, concealing the slit-like pupils, at last at peace. His wand lay tranquil at his side, barely being touched by the spider leg fingertips. Lord Voldemort was dead. And Viktor Krum close behind him.

And no one cared. No one would remember the Riddles - only the masks of monsters they wore.


End file.
